


Flowers on the Bathroom Floor

by redgoth



Category: South Park
Genre: AU where a lot of them didn't meet until college, Alternate Universe - College/University, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redgoth/pseuds/redgoth
Summary: Pete claims he isn't in love with anyone. His roommate, Stan, is in love with his childhood best friend. The flowers that litter their lives speak the truth.





	1. Hanahaki Disease

❁❁❁

The booth was a mess. Textbooks and notebooks littered the table, with only a few cups of coffee and baskets of mozzarella sticks breaking up the work space. Two of the group have their heads down on the table. One was passed out asleep, the other was merely grumbling about his hatred for everything in the world, but _specifically_ college, finals, stereotypes, and parents. The girl on the end had her feet kicked up, resting on the opposite guy’s lap, filing her nails as he typed away on his laptop.

This was a normal picture of a weekday evening, especially in recent weeks. With finals approaching rapidly, Thursday get-togethers quickly formed into Wednesday-Thursday study groups, which had since formed into ‘If you’re free, wanna go to Denny’s and study or cry or maybe both?’

Pete was used to it by now. Finals were next week, and with 3/4ths of the group being fidgety college students, sticking together was a nice pace.

Henrietta had nothing better to do on a Friday night, having already gotten a steady job and no desire to leave. She was just here to keep them company, and to keep them from committing suicide. She was painting her nails now, a soft lavender color.

Michael, med student, suffering and swimming in thoughts of illness and infection, had his head down on the table. He mumbled disgruntled curses to the heavens, swears at the piles of homework and upcoming tests.

And lastly, there’s Firkle, who, after multiple all-nighters in a row, ran out of steam and fell asleep at the table, face pressed to the pages of their sketchbook. The life of a freshman is a quietly sad one.

While everyone in this story is important, this is a story about Pete, so we’ll return our attention to him, and stay decidedly with him.

He deletes a line of his essay, staring boredly at the eight page document he’s been working on since Wednesday.

“I don't think my hatred for this font could get any bigger.”

“You’re gunna tire yourself out if you keep workin’ on only that one.” Henrietta chimes, her voice far too airy for the others liking. Michael sits up with a start.

“I can't be that much of a stereotype.” He says, pushing his hair out of his face.

“Dude, are you still freaking out about this?” Pete asks, a little grin growing on his lips.

“I’ve been wondering about this since high school.” Michael pulls at his curls, sighing heavily. “Like, whatever, I may be studying to be a doctor because all of my parents have been forcing that on me since I was like, a toddler, but I also do a shitload of drugs and smoke like, a pack a week. That cancels it out, right?”

Pete sighs, exiting out of the document. “True, but you're still an Asian kid with two Asian parents, who want you to be a doctor. And you're studying to be a doctor. No amount of weed and cigarettes can cancel that much out.”

“I hate you.” He slams his head back onto his textbook. Firkle mumbles something across from him. Pete shushes them.

“You poor children.” Henrietta hums. She’s since stopped with the nail care and has moved on to texting someone on her phone. Probably her girlfriend, Pete guesses. “I don't envy any of you in the slightest.”

“We’re poor college kids and you’re a pastry chef with the money to buy us coffee and cheese sticks and live alone. We know, we all wish we were you.” Michael sounds like he's contemplating selling his soul to the devil. Pete doesn't blame him.

“You'll get there, buddy.” She pats him on the back, and suddenly a shit-eating grin spreads across her face. “You’ll have your doctor money eventually. It's our lovely English major who’ll be broke all his life.”

“Ha.” Pete responds. Dryly. “Why make fun of me when there's a perfectly good art student right next to me?”

“Firkle’s still full of hope, I can't crush that just yet.” She stares at the conked out freshman affectionately. “You, however, have lost all the joy in your heart, so congratulations, you're my target.”

Pete rolls his eyes and returns to the blank page of his laptop. The essay is due tomorrow. He reopens the document.

“Alright kiddies,” Henrietta sets her phone down, looking at her two awake friends. “My girlfriend is picking me up in 15, any of you need a ride?”

“I'm driving Firkle back to campus.” Michael mumbles, sitting up slowly.

She nods, and turns her attention to the other. “Pete?”

“Roommate’s picking me up after he gets off work.” He says, rewriting his opening paragraph.

“Awesome, she's not big on other people in her car.”

“Your girlfriend’s weird.” Pete mutters. Henrietta shrugs.

“A bitter, antisocial, English girl with nice hair loves me. I can accept her not liking chartering others around.” She shrugs. Michael snickers.

The group returns to the comfortable silence it held before, Michael returning to his studying and Pete to finishing the stupid fucking essay he was about ready to print out for the sole purpose of lighting on fire. Henrietta begins to dump her stuff into her bag, and pulls out her wallet. She sets the money down, and after a few moments of looking over the group, stands from the booth. Firkle, with the brain function of a snail and the speed of one too, sits up.

“Go back to sleep.” Michael tells them.

“Where are we.” They grunt.

“Denny’s.” Henrietta answers, although she’s pretty sure they already know this. “I’m leaving now, so bye Firkle.” She smiles at them softly, and they scowl. “And goodbye to you two as well.”

There’s a few mumbles of ‘Bye, Henri’ and then she's out the door, her dark skirt fluttering as she walks.

“When are we leaving.” Firkle stares down dejectedly at their sketchbook. They sound exhausted.

“After Pete’s boyfriend picks him up.” Michael says, smugly.

“Stan’s not my boyfriend.” Pete grumbles, glaring at him over his laptop.

“Sorry, sorry. Husband.”

Firkle rolls their eyes at the little argument they’re well aware is about to break out.

“Not my husband, either.” Pete scowls.

“But you have, like, six kids together.” Michael says, and Pete scoffs.

“I don't think two dogs and a cat count as things that will ultimately tie me to Stan forever, Michael.” Pete says, closing his laptop.

“You never know.” Michael shrugs. “Maybe he’s in love with you.”

Pete glares. “He’s in love with his old best friend back home.”

“How do you know?” Michael asks. It sounds a bit less teasing now.

“He spits up primrose petals every time we talk about him.” Pete rolls his eyes. “Primrose means ‘young love’, not ‘roommates from freshman year who never stopped living together.’”

There was a hesitation in the group.

“He has Hanahaki?” Firkle asks in a peculiar voice.

“Mhm.” Pete answers. It had always been an overly talked about topic in their apartment because it was always staring them in the face, every cough laced with petals, retching up whole flowers in the bathroom. The number of petals Pete had to pull out of the couch was incredible.

“How long has he had it?” Michael asks.

_Because of course the med student would,_ Pete thinks. “Since he was in eleventh grade.”

_“Eleventh grade?_ ” Michael repeats with a scrutinizing gaze. “He’s like, your age, right?” Pete nods. “Then he’s had it, like, five years?”

“Six in January.” Pete nods once more.

“Dude, I’ve had to do so much fucking research on that goddamn flower disease, you usually have like, eight years to either fix your shit or get surgery or you just _die._ ”

Pete stares at him blankly. He was speaking way too passionately right now. “I’m… aware.” He says, calmly. “We’ve talked about it, he’ll get the surgery once shit starts really going downhill, but…”

“You should get it _before_ shit starts going downhill, what the fuck? That surgery alone doesn’t cost much but if you wait until you’re approaching death’s door, it’s probably already fucking up your lungs and _more_ which requires even _more surgeries_ and money.” Michael’s talking with his hands, he looks like he’s about to implode. “Doesn’t he work at fucking McDonald’s?”

Pete raises his hands up in an attempt to calm him. “We know, Michael.” He replies, slowly, nodding his head. “I know, I’ve talked to him about that, too. But…” Pete trails off again, and he runs his hands over his laptop, gazing at the stickers that litter the hood. “He doesn’t want to forget his best friend, Michael. The surgery completely wipes your memory of the one you love, he doesn’t want that until it’ll actually kill him to remember.”

Michael quiets, then. He looks almost remorseful, and Pete sighs.

“He’d be forgetting a majority of his childhood, basically.” Firkle rephrased, speaking quietly.

“That too.” Pete nudges the younger with his elbow. Firkle rolls their eyes.

Michael nods his head after a pause, heaving a sigh. “Alright, yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He mumbles. Pete nods.

“This conversation got too heavy, can we go back to talking about drugs?” Firkle says.

Michael’s eyebrows furrow. “You weren’t even awake when we were talking about drugs.”

Firkle shrugs. “Generally when I don’t know what’s been talked about, I assume there was some mention of drugs.”

At that, Pete breaks into a little fit of snickers and laughter as Michael glares at the two across from him.

“I take offense to that.”

“What?” Firkle says, glaring. “It was true, wasn’t it? You dumbasses were talking about drugs, right Pete?”

“We were.” He says in between snickers.

“How dare you.” Michael scoffs. He stands up, folding his arms over his chest. “Fuck you guys, I need to pee.” He flips them off before slinking off towards the restroom. Firkle hesitates.

“So, about those drugs.”

“Oh my god.” Pete groans. “He was talking about how he’s a stereotype, but maybe it could be cancelled out by the amount of drugs and cigarettes in his system.”

“Wow, logically.” Firkle rolls their eyes. Pete snickers.

The door to the diner creaks open, and Pete glances towards the entrance. Stan’s walking over to them.

“Hey.” Pete greets when he gets there.

“Hey.” Stan throws back, giving him a grin.

“You have some petals in your hair.” Pete says. Stan’s hand shoots up to his hair.

Honestly, how no one knew he had the Hanahaki Disease was beyond him.

“I threw up in the parking lot.” Stan confesses, pulling a purple petal from his hair.

“Gross.” Pete scowls.

“Cool.” Firkle stares up at him in amazement. Stan laughs.

“If you spot any primrose in the parking lot, that’s why.”

“How did it get in your _hair_?” Pete stresses. He’s packing away all of his crap now, shoving everything into his ratty backpack.

“That’s where it always seems to end up though, huh?” Stan stuffs his hands and the petals into his pockets.

“Terrible.” Pete says, scrunching his nose up. Stan grins.

Michael returns to the scene, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“Guess you’re going, then?” He asks as slips back into the booth, completely ignoring Stan. Stan doesn’t seem to mind, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Yeah.” Pete says, zipping up the last pocket of his bag. He stands, and Stan takes a step back.

“See you tomorrow?” Michael asks.

“I have to work tomorrow.” Pete slings his bag over his back, sighing heavily.

“Sunday, then.” Firkle says. Pete smiles, just a little.

“Yeah, most likely.” He answers, and the group bids their goodbyes before Pete and Stan leave the restaurant.

The pile of primrose is unsurprising to find.


	2. Primrose

❁❁❁

“I’m just saying, I think you should come home with me for winter break.”

“And _I’m_ just saying I think that’s useless. Besides, someone needs to stay here to take care of the animals.”

This conversation had been going on since Stan parked the truck. They were shuffling inside the apartment now.

“We could easily get someone to watch them, or we could just take them with us.” Stan says as he drops his keys on the little table beside the door. “And besides, I don’t like you being here, alone, for a _month._  You probably won’t even leave the apartment.”

“I have friends, you know.” Pete scowls. A dog paws at his leg, and he scoops the small mutt up into his arms. It’s George, and she whines and wiggles against him. “And I leave this place more than you do, so really, if anyone should be scolding anyone, it should be _me_ getting after _you._ ” He calls as he walks down the hallway to his room.

Stan’s sitting down on the ground, allowing the border collie, Francis, to crawl on top of him and lick his face. “You said Firkle was going home as soon as their class let out.” He points out.

“I have Michael and Henrietta.” Pete yells from his room. The cat, Foggy, is sleeping on his bed. He sighs, maneuvering the backpack off his shoulder and onto the floor.

“Henrietta will be absorbed with Estella.” Stan yells back. “That leaves Michael, my dude, do you really want to spend winter break with _Michael?_ ”

“Why are you dissing my friend?” Pete stomps back into the living room to glare at his roommate, who was most definitely covered in dog. Stan coughs, producing a few yellow and blue petals.

“I’m not dissing him! I just-” He coughs again, and Francis licks his face.

“Ugh.” Pete rolls his eyes and stomps over to the couch, plopping onto the side closest to the wall. George wiggles free of his hold and zips around the room, letting out a few excited barks. Stan forces the bigger dog off as he stands up, hurrying into the kitchen to hack up some more flower petals into the trashcan. When he comes back, he looks more tired than before.

“Look, I’m just saying, I think maybe you could use a break from here, and I don’t really want you to spend Christmas alone, because that _sucks_ , and frankly, I’m a little afraid of going home alone and being with just my family, and seeing _him_ and his boyfriend.” He sits down on the opposite end of the couch, defeatedly. He runs his hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “My lungs hurt.”

“Maybe you should take Francis with you.” Pete sighs back. At the mention of her name, Francis hops up on the couch. Stan scratches behind her ear and she all but crawls into his lap.

“I was hoping you’d let me get away with taking one of them.” Stan presses his face into the fur on her back. “Home’s nice, but I wouldn’t want to be away from any of you guys for too long.”

Pete pushes his hair out of his face, taking in a deep breath. “Michael and I talked about you for a little bit today.” It’s a dull attempt at a topic change, but it works.

“Really?” Stan asks, pulling away from Francis’s silky fur.

“It was about Hanahaki, mostly, but yeah. I think he’s a little worried for you.” Pete snickers. Stan grins.

“Ha. Weird.” He says.

“Either that, or he’s just getting really passionate about his newly forming job in the medical field. He says you should get the surgery before it gets too bad and fucks your lungs up to hell and back.”

“Did you tell him I’m an angsty bisexual and want to hold onto my love for as long as possible?”

“I did, actually.” Pete says. The room feels calmer than it did before. Both dogs have joined them on the couch, and the cat was slowly slinking out to join them.

“Incredible.” Stan sighs. He flops over onto his back and his head bumps Pete’s thigh.

“He also made a few jokes about us being married with children.”

“Are you implying that we are not?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m implying.”

Stan gasps. He brings his hand to his chest. “But Pete, I’m obviously deeply in love with you!” He says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“That’s obviously why you’re coughing up the flower for young love, Stanley. Because we’ve known each other for sooo long.” Pete snickers. In reality? Friends since freshman year. They were roommates.

“The longest. Besties since nappies.” Stan says, now keeping his voice completely serious. Pete falters, allowing a loud laugh to slip past his lips.

“I cannot believe those are actual words that just came out of your mouth.” He grins. Stan pushes himself closer to Pete, scooting himself into Pete’s lap and holding his face in his hands.

“Pete, you’re the only one I will ever love.” He says, making a kissy face. Pete laughs, shoving him away.

“Fuck off, don't you have to pack?”

Admittedly, Stan is a good friend. Pete can’t deny that. Always some kind of shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd love if y'all could leave kudos or comments and i'm just gunna constantly repeat that until i die


	3. Pink Camellias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for talk of dying, suicidal ideations type stuff

❁❁❁

“Next Saturday, wanna come over to my place?”

Michael’s voice is the most awake Pete’s heard it in days.

“Uh, sure.” Pete answers, raising an eyebrow. Michael gives him a lopsided grin.

“Yao got some new ink so we’ve been fucking around with stick and poke shit.” As if to show off, he pulls up the sleeve of his jacket to show off the little cloud on his wrist.

“Oh.” Pete says, staring down at the cloud. He’s reminded of the tattoos that cover other places of Michael, and his own moon and stars on his shoulder. “Yeah, that’d be sweet, I guess.”

“Awesome.” Michael nods his head, pulling his sleeve back down. “Damien bought some new needles for it because I may be a drug addict of a medical student, but I’m also a med student and I have to draw the line somewhere.”

Pete snickers, nodding his head. “Obviously.” He muses.

Next Saturday, after finals, after the last class of the semester. That’d be a relief. A way to finally calm down after the mass amounts of work and tests that were currently tearing apart his soul. Sitting in a badly lit room with his best friend and his best friend’s roommates, repeatedly stabbing his skin with a needle shoved into a pencil. Yes, clearly such a relaxing time.

Firkle slinks into the booth and flips open their sketchbook. There’s just a poorly done drawing of an alien on the page. “I'm going to die.” They announce.

“Are you actually dying or can I say same to that?” Michael asks.

“Yes.” Firkle answers, and Pete chuckles.

“Alright, same.” Michael shrugs. Firkle sets his head down on the table.

“We really need to hang out again without anything remotely school-ish.” Pete sighs. Firkle and Michael sigh in agreement.

 

❁❁❁

 

Days later, the walk back to the apartment after Pete’s last class was long and tiresome. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed, surrounded by the animals in his life, and sleep... forever, if possible.

When he opens the door to find no barking whatsoever, it's a bit of a cause for concern. He hesitates in the doorway before dropping his backpack down onto the floor and wandering further into his house.

“Stan?” He calls, raising an eyebrow at the emptiness.

“Bedroom.” Comes the reply, and that's a bit of a relief. He walks the short walk to Stan’s room and pushes the door open.

Stan’s laying on his bed, surrounded by dogs, a cat, and flowers.

“Didn't go to work today.” He says, looking boredly at Pete. “Think I’m gunna quit. Get a job at the supermarket or something.”

“So, you go from a fast food store to a different kind of food store.” Pete says, calmly.

“Yep.” Stan says. He’s twisting a flower in his fingers, but let's it fall as he coughs out more petals. Foggy, who was lying his chest, bolts at the violent motions.

“Stop thinking about him.” Pete says, walking over to the cluttered desk and taking a seat in the chair.

“Can’t.” Stan replies, wiping his face free of blue and orange petals. “I love him.”

“You’re going to die.”

“Maybe I just,” Stan starts, “maybe I just _should,_ Pete.” There’s tears welling up in his eyes. _Shit._

“Just… die?” Pete asks, making sure they’re on the same page.

 _“Yes.”_ Stan says, and it comes out in a choked sob. “I-I-I can’t just, I don’t, I don’t want to forget hi-, m- my best friend, Pete, I-I can’t.”

“So you’ll just die for your memories, then?” Pete says. He's scowling. Stan holds his face in his hands.

 _“I guess.”_ Stan says.

“That’s fucking stupid.” Pete grumbles. “You shouldn’t _die_ for the memories of someone. It’s fucking dumb.”

Stan makes a noise.

"It's fucking selfish," he says, harshly. "Why would, you think-" He's rambling now, but Stan lets out another noise and sits up.

Tears are rolling down his face and he’s got a mix of emotions on his face. “Can- can you not be a tool for two fucking seconds?” He chokes.

Pete tenses. His face softens. Oh. Oh, too much emotions. From both of them. Stan pulls his knees to his chest and hides his face. They stay still for a long moment. Stan’s body shakes with little sobs and soon Pete stands up, walks over and sits down on the bed, wrapping his roommate up in his arms.

“I’m sorry.” He says. "Too far."

“Dick.” Stan coughs, leaning into him.

Pete hesitates, patting his friend on the back. “I don’t want you to die.” He mumbles. Stan relaxes, just a little.

“I’m sorry.” Stan whimpers. Pete wants to be far away from this conversation.

“Do you want me to order something for dinner?”

“Please.”

 

The night is quiet. Pete orders Chinese food, and they sit together on the couch, watching shitty TV, petting dogs and cuddling the cat.

Stan goes to bed, and Pete puts their silverware in the dishwasher, and goes to bed shortly after.

He dreams of purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are appreciated, yo

**Author's Note:**

> hey i'd love it if y'all could leave comments or kudos, i lov u.


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